


Goes Better With Pineapples

by misura



Category: Psych
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, Cooking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"This is weird," Shawn said. "I mean, who would steal a </i>spoon<i>?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Goes Better With Pineapples

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _Lassiter/Shawn, cooking class_

It wasn't that Lassiter couldn't _cook_ \- he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and that included the preparation of healthy meals, thank you very much.

"Dude," Shawn said, "has this got _any_ pineapple in it? At all?"

Rather it was that Shawn was an _idiot_ who had no taste (except in boyfriends), no discernation (except in boyfriends) and no idea of what was good for him (arguably not even in boyfriends, given how regularly Lassiter felt the urge to strangle him).

"Of course it hasn't got any pineapple in it," Lassiter snapped. "It's a _salad_."

"And it's a very nice salad," Shawn said in that tone of voice that was supposed to be soothing and never failed to get Lassiter even more pissed off than he already was. "There's just one tiny, tiny thing missing. No - don't tell me. I know you're testing me."

"It tastes perfectly fine to me," Lassiter said. He'd spent rather more time on the salad than he spent on most of his other meals - microwaves were a wonderful invention, and Lassiter saw no reason why he should waste time on tedious food preparation when he could simply set a timer.

"Oh, now you're just teasing me." Shawn ate a bit more salad and closed his eyes. "This is good."

"Really." Lassiter could have lived with the whole 'being an idiot' part. It was the bit where Shawn thought _he_ was an idiot, too, that got to him.

Aside from the thing where he was kind of maybe dating Shawn, Lassiter considered himself a quite rational and perhaps somewhat smarter than average human being.

"You should put some pineapple in next time," Shawn said. "That would make it even better."

 

Lassiter thought he could have been happy never seeing another pineapple in his life - and it wasn't as if he'd hated or disliked or even felt mildly annoyed by the things before, it was just that Shawn had no sense of proportion, of not taking things one step too far.

"He made you lunch?" O'Hara, unsurprisingly, considered the entire business rather cute and amusing.

"Correction: he forced sandwiches on me." Lassiter peered at them suspiciously.

O'Hara rolled her eyes in that way far too many people whom Lassiter had repeatedly complained about to how hard it was to be the object of Shawn's dubious affection did. "What, you think he'd poison you? They look fine."

"Trade you?" Lassiter asked, without much hope.

She shook her head. "Just don't eat it if you don't like it."

Lassiter sighed, then stood up and went in search of someone he could bully into trading a cheese-and-pineapple sandwich for something ( _anything_ ) else.

 

"Cooking class," Shawn said in that out-of-the-blue way of his he always used when he wanted Lassiter to jump to some sort of conclusion about a case but was too lazy to actually speak in whole sentences.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not _at work_ , Lassie. Maybe later."

Lassister didn't _beg_. Ever. "It's just a _phrase_ , Spencer." Not even when Shawn was doing that thing with his tongue, and Lassiter was reasonably sure that if he kept his voice down, Shawn'd never even hear him, which also kind of made the whole point of saying the words in the first place a moot one.

"Of course it is." Lassiter decided he didn't like the way O'Hara was looking at him.

"Something you want to say, O'Hara?"

She coughed, as if he'd caught her staring at pictures of naked people or some such thing. "Cooking class sounds like fun."

"Also: useful." Shawn nodded. "Perfect for the two of us. So how about it, Lassie?"

"It doesn't sound like fun to _me_ ," Lassiter said, glaring at O'Hara.

"Have you ever been covered in chocolate sauce and licked clean by a very appreciative person who is not your boyfriend, nor possesses any aspirations to such a lofty position?" Shawn asked O'Hara.

 

So. Cooking class.

"Hi, I'm Shawn and this is Carlton," Shawn said. "We're gay."

"No, we're not." Shawn had dated women - Lassiter had been married to one. That he'd ended up divorced had been a matter of incompatible personalities; nothing to do with her gender.

"For those of you who think being gay means being happy - you're absolutely right. We are very, very happy to be joining you on this journey of culinary discovery," Shawn continued smoothly. "Say hi to these nice people Carlton. Don't be shy, now."

"Hi," Lassiter said. "My name's Lassiter."

"We are sleeping together," Shawn said. "I love pineapples."

 

In the second week, someone switched their sugar for salt.

"You know, I actually kind of like it this way," Shawn said, giving another slow lick to the sauce-covered ladle and looking thoughtful. "It's an unusual taste, but not unpleasant."

Lassiter didn't want to find out for himself if that was true. It might be, but that was hardly the point. Someone had deliberately attempted to sabotage their cooking lesson; someone had to be punished, to be shown one did not mess with Lassiter and walked away from it - unless one's name happened to be Shawn Spencer, and even then, there was no actual 'walking away'.

"Hel-lo? Lassie?"

"I'm thinking," Lassiter said. He didn't think Shawn believed the switch had been an accident. However, given the lack of mumbling and cryptic utterances, Shawn probably had no more idea of whom the guilty party was than Lassiter.

"Oh." Shawn put down the ladle. "You know, it worries me you think of sex so often. It's like an obsession or something. I mean, sometimes, a man licking a ladle is just a man licking a ladle."

"I have no idea what you're babbling about," Lassiter said, mentally going over the list of suspects.

 

In the third week, nothing happened, but in the fourth week, someone stole one of their tomatoes.

"Did you eat one of our tomatoes?"

"Why would I eat one of our tomatoes?" Shawn asked. "Why, did _you_ eat one of our tomatoes?"

"No," Lassiter said grimly. "But I will find out who took it, and I will make them very, very sorry."

"You know I get jealous when you use your handcuffs on other people," Shawn said, and then he walked over to the couple working at the bench next to theirs and talked them into handing over one of their tomatoes.

 

In the fifth week, Shawn's spoon went missing.

"This is weird," Shawn said. "I mean, who would steal a _spoon_?"

Lassiter had done some research - his list of suspects had slimmed down a bit by now, but not quite enough yet for him to be able to start pointing fingers, maybe make an arrest or two. A spoon might only be a spoon, but theft was theft. And it had been _Shawn's_ spoon.

"Do you think I should offer a reward?" Shawn asked. "And hey, do you know of any artists who could do a good spoon picture? I don't think I've got any recent photographs. Or not so recent photographs."

"This means _war_ ," Lassiter said.

"I love it when you act all tough," Shawn said. "Gives me goosebumps."

 

In the sixth week, they had their last cooking lesson, and Lassiter was watching their fellow would-be cooks like a hawk while Shawn was measuring a spoonful of sugar.

"Do you think it's too full?" Shawn asked.

"Isn't that the spoon that went missing last week?"

Shawn looked at the spoon as if he'd never seen it before in his life. "Huh. I guess it is."

"You _guess_ it is?" Lassiter had been having _fantasies_ about how this would play out, about catching some petty-minded miserable excuse for a human being who couldn't handle two men being in a relationship. It would have been _good_. It would have made this whole cooking class thing actually _mean_ something, other than six evenings he could have spent doing something else.

"Maybe the missing spoon's got a twin?"

"Are you messing with me?" Lassiter thought about the incident with the tomato, thought about how Shawn hadn't seemed bothered by the sugar-and-salt switch.

"I thought you might get bored," Shawn said.

Lassiter stared at him. "You thought I might get bored," he repeated.

"And it worked," Shawn said. "So there."

"No sex for a week," Lassiter said.

"Yeah, right." Shawn chuckled. "Like you can resist me for that long. Or, wait, you know, maybe you just hurt my feelings a little, going all cranky on me just because I tried to do something nice for you. So let's just say ... no sex for a _week_."

"That's what I said," Lassiter pointed out.

"You didn't mean it," Shawn said.

 

Lassiter sighed in dismay as he surveyed the items on his kitchen table. Making a salad had been one thing; mostly, it had been a simple matter of cutting vegetables and throwing them together.

This was different. This was going to require precision and patience and a bit of luck.

"Lassie?" The kind of luck that involved Shawn _not_ walking into the kitchen before he was done."What are you doing?"

"Making a pineapple upside-down cake?" Lassiter made it a question not because he wasn't sure that was what he was doing, but rather because it occured to him that just maybe, if he played his cards right, he would not actually be required to make the damn thing.

It had been five days since the 'no sex for a week' argument-slash-agreement, and Lassiter had come to the unpleasant realization that Shawn was a lot better at being a tease than _he_ was.

"Did we ever have sex on the kitchen table?" Shawn asked.

"I think I would remember that," Lassiter replied cautiously, not yet daring to hope.

"Oh, good," Shawn said. "Well, have fun making the cake."


End file.
